


i don't want to be alone when these bones decay

by ghosstkid



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, cryptid!james or ghost!james
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosstkid/pseuds/ghosstkid
Summary: He imagined himself waltzing with the moon, a feverish flurry of navy blue as he and the moon spun among the glittering green ribbons in the sky. He did not feel the pain of the rocks pressing into his bare feet as he spun, his arms embracing his glowing dance partner.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	i don't want to be alone when these bones decay

**Author's Note:**

> i just think about james and the moon a lot 
> 
> title from the song 'run' by daughter

It’s snowing again. 

The tall figure stares down at the snow as he walks, his bare feet black and blue from the cold. The snow lands on his sagging, navy blue-clad shoulders, as white as his cheeks and gnarled fingers. His dark eyes linger on the black horizon ahead of him and the glowing moon. His weak hand twitches towards the white orb as if he could clasp it in his trembling fingers. 

The moon reminds him of someone; someone glowing, someone warm, someone reaching back for him. 

The snow crunches under his frozen feet. 

All he remembers is snow. Watching the snowfall through a frosty windowpane, walking across icy wooden planks, across thick pack ice. He supposes that there must have been a time when he was not surrounded by snow. 

There must have been… There had to have been. 

Yet he cannot remember what it looked like, what it felt like. 

The thought drives him onwards; if he can reach the horizon where the moon disappears behind perhaps he would find the place where no snowfalls. 

Perhaps he would find the place where the moon sleeps. 

The beautiful, glowing moon. 

He looks up at the moon, his pale fingers twitching up to the dark sky. Green, pink and blue ribbons dance across the infinite darkness. Stars shimmer in the ribbon’s embrace. 

The moon glows as white as the snow. 

It was the first thing he remembered seeing; pulling back the blanket laid over him. There the moon was, hanging over him as though waiting for him to awaken. 

He tasted a name on his tongue but swallowed it before he could utter it; it tasted bitter and salty, and yet it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted; caramel and chocolate, honey stirred into creamy tea. 

It must have been the name of the moon, he thought. 

On aching, cold and bare feet, he stood and reached for the moon. He stretched his fingers as far he could but it was not enough. He could imagine his fingertips caressing its glowing face, feel the soft face against his skin. 

When had he looked up at someone like this? 

He could remember the fog that hung over him and yet through it he could see someone so warm; glowing like the moon. 

He stretched his weak arm even further, reaching for the glowing, white light. It was not enough. 

He watched the moon waltz across the sky, swirling and twirling among the green ribbons. He stumbled after it, watching it sink towards the horizon. 

_ Wait,  _ he wanted to call after it.  _ I am still here… I am here.  _

Yet the moon did not listen and disappeared beyond the horizon. He stumbled after it, his pale hand reaching for it, tripping over rocks as he went. 

He walked for as long as he could before a stumble over the rocks sent him falling once more. He lay in a pool of navy blue wool, his weak eyes on the rocks that made his bed. He closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, the moon hung over him as though waiting for him. He smiled, reaching his hand up towards the shining orb. 

As it moved through the sky, he followed it. He imagined himself waltzing with the moon, a feverish flurry of navy blue as he and the moon spun among the glittering green ribbons in the sky. He did not feel the pain of the rocks pressing into his bare feet as he spun, his arms embracing his glowing dance partner. 

He waltzed with the moon across the barren world. Snow replaced rock and the temperatures plunged but he barely noticed, bathed in the white glow of the moon. 

Tonight, he walks after the moon, too tired to waltz. The snow falling on his shoulders feels heavy. He thinks about warm places and if he had ever known one. 

Had he ever been human? 

The thought sends a strange shiver through him. He has no need for breath anymore, his lungs having failed him long ago. He has no need for blood anymore, having bled out of reopened wounds long ago. 

Yet staring up at the moon, he feels a squall of emotions that reminded him of the soft feeling of lace between his fingers, burning anger and raised voices, the taste of bitter medicine and chocolate melting on his tongue; it all feels human. 

Under the twisted bones, the bloody clothing and ragged, torn greatcoat that had once been covered with glittering gold buttons, as bright as the sun, under the thin, nearly translucent skin and bloodshot eyes, was there still a human spirit? 

There had to be. 

The moon knew what he was. Once he reached the moon, he too would be certain. 

And so he followed the moon; the beautiful, beautiful moon. 

He pays little attention to the snow covering his shoulders and sticking to his matted hair. His dark eyes glint in the white moonlight. 

The cold seeps through his thin skin. 

He keeps his weak eyes on the moon. His lips twitch, feeling the name of the moon there yet he could not remember all the letters that made it up. He feels a shudder run through him; a retching, sickening feeling as though he would regurgitate the name he had swallowed. He would reach down his throat and pluck the name from his oesophagus, pull it from his medicine stained tongue and hold it in his palm; bloody and smelling of bile. But he would hold it once more, the name of the moon. 

Yet as much as he coughed and gagged, he could not get the name out of him. He falls to his knees in the snow, a pool of torn navy blue wool and dull buttons. 

Snowflakes land on him with the gentle grace of ballerinas, blanketing him just as a mother would pull the covers over her tired child, pressing a loving kiss to his forehead and whispering  _ good night and sweet dreams, my love.  _

He lies his head on the snowy pillow. 

He struggles to keep his foggy gaze on the moon; every brutish instinct in him tells him to get up, to keep walking until there was nothing left of him but bleaching bones and rotting wool. 

And yet his cold limbs could not move, frozen and already half-buried under the blanket of snow. 

He let his eyes close. 

The snow sparkles in the moonlight. 

_ Oh, James,  _ the moon whispers. Hands reach for his face, gentle thumbs stroking his skeletal cheeks.  _ Oh, James. You are so cold.  _

He opens his eyes, looking up at the moon, at the strawberry curls that framed his face, at his glowing, icy eyes, at his gentle smile that could melt the snow that blankets the poor creature. 

_ Oh, James…  _ The moon clasps his hands and slowly raises him from the snow. Salty tears well up in his eyes as he holds the moon’s glowing hands, his fingers clawing at his skin. The moon pulls him close. The snow melts away, the holes mend themselves and the buttons on his coat shimmer once more. He rests his head on the moon’s shoulder, closing his eyes as he drinks in the glowing warmth.  _ James…  _ The moon whispers again as though savouring the taste of his name, letting it linger on his tongue as if tasting a long-forgotten sweet from childhood. 

He lets the moon raise his face, meeting his glowing gaze. 

He could taste the moon’s name on his tongue. 

_ Francis…  _ The spirit whispers. The moon smiles. 

Suddenly they are waltzing across the snow, across the sky, dancing among the glowing ribbons of green, purple and pink in a swirl of midnight blue. 


End file.
